Page 2 of The Usual Family Mayhem

Yes. Always. Wasn’t everyone? But this was the time for babbling, not eating. Full-on, cover-your-ass, try-to-make-sense babbling. “Food is big business.”

Micah nodded. His version of encouragement. That and the repeating thing. “Big business?”

Brock sat up, clearly intending to interrupt. His shifting made my brain spin faster, spewing words about the one business model I knew a little about. Very little. Like, almost nothing. “Imagine homemade desserts, with pies being the star, made by two older Southern women using time-honored family recipes that elicit a feeling of nostalgia and luxury.”

Brock snorted as he shook his head. “Food is a crowded field. There’s no way—”

Micah held up a hand. “Let her finish.”

Yeah, dumbass. Let me finish.

“This is about more than pies and desserts. It’s about the story behind the desserts.” I was in it now and didn’t have a road map to lead me out again. “The backstory is inspiring. Two women of a certain age were married to completely useless men and ultimately forced to fend for themselves.”

I let that last sentence splash around in the room’s testosterone for a second.

“They rebuilt their lives by making and selling pies. Creating a business and a community around the pies that later expanded to include other desserts.”

“So?” Brock excelled at missing the point and didn’t disappoint here.

“Frankly, they’re damn good pies. Right now, they’re sold on a small scale all over the South via word of mouth and a website. They’re special. Curated. Artisanal.” I’d moved into the part of the pitch where I threw phrases together that may or may not have applied to pies, cupcakes, and other assorted dessert items because this room lovedfancy buzzwords. “Now imagine taking this small grandma-run business nationwide. Making it the go-to dessert option for special occasions. Putting it in high-end grocery and specialty stores as well as on direct delivery. Creating demand like that lady did with cupcakes a decade or so ago.”

Big fan. Loved the whole dessert family. And those cupcake vending machines? Genius.

Now I wanted a cupcake, so time to wrap this up. “If we focus on the pies for a second, once you convince people they need the pies, they’ll pay anything for those pies. Plus, you have built-in marketing gold in the form of two very feisty, self-made women who people will see as their grandmas.”

There. Done. Not brilliant but not a complete fumble either.

No one said a word.

Maybe I didn’t stick the landing. The pitch wasn’t real anyway. I counted on it getting shot down. The hope was to buy a few more months on the job while I figured out how to do it.

“The scale is too small,” Brock said.

Micah frowned. “Too small?”

“Yes?” Brock looked a bit less confident about his attempt at sabotage than he had a minute ago.

“Everyone has a grandma.” Micah made the statement as if he was delivering a grand revelation and not merely commenting on a biological fact. “Combined with the reality that people with money are willing to pay for items they’re convinced are luxuries, something special their neighbors don’t have, even though anyone could buy or make that item for far less, you have a recipe for success.”

Like how the sneakers I got on sale for fifteen dollars looked a lot like Brock’s expensive ones. Just as an example.

Micah continued. “Our job is to convince an investor who already has a foothold in the specialty food market that they can make these pies, produce them at a substantial return, and create sustainable demand.”

Wait... did he say... Was Micah actually considering this?

He shrugged. “Then our client can sell the entire company, grandmas and all, for a huge profit to some big grocery chain.”

Selling grandmas sounded like a problem, but I played along because Brock looked ready to explode into a giant fireball of ego and hair gel. I didn’t want to miss that.

“We can start making calls and testing interest levels. First thing we’ll need to do is secure our rights and get these grandmas under contract.” Micah pointed the end of his pen at me. “You have two weeks.”

Huh...Well, that went sideways fast. The extent of my overpromising hit with the force of a freight train.

My grandmother was going to kill me.

Chapter Two

The intoxicating mix of brown butter, sugar, and bubbling blueberries hit me the second I crossed the threshold into Gram’s kitchen two days later. I would have gotten there sooner but it took that long to pack, plan, and work up the nerve to dive into this business mess. But here I was in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, the magnolia-strewn area where I grew up.

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